


Partnership

by quiet__tiger



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 19:04:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10703199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiet__tiger/pseuds/quiet__tiger
Summary: Bruce and Clark have a nice give-and-take relationship. But sometimes the other partner taking is great too.





	Partnership

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Livejournal May. 29th, 2012.

Bruce bit back some profanity when Clark squeezed his hand tighter around his cock as he stroked, no longer lovingly just trying to make him feel good with his mouth. No, there was finally intent there, teasing over with as Clark applied himself to making Bruce come.

Lovingly bringing him closer and closer to orgasm, and still Clark didn’t like to hear swear words. Always the ridiculous Boy Scout. “Fu—Clark, God.”

Clark shook his head without letting Bruce slip out, and all Bruce could do was groan. Well, groan and try to encourage Clark even more, one hand on the back of his head and the other on his shoulder. Never begging, Bruce never begged for anything, even in bed, but using his hands to try to get Clark and his lovely mouth moving faster.

Not like he couldn’t handle it. There were certain _advantages_ to having Superman as your lover.

Then the giant blue and red tease—okay, flesh-colored tease now—pulled off with one final suck. Bruce could feel his expression change from “slack with physical pleasure” to “wounded puppy” as Clark called it. “Clark…”

“I know you’re Batman, but I told you hours ago I wanted to ride you, but then you had to do research—”

“Detective work.”

“—on your fancy computer while I waited oh-so-patiently with nothing to do but imagine you inside—”

“You wrote three articles for work while you waited.” Bruce knew he was being far too annoying—or “Bruce” —when even Clark Kent gave him a withering glare of impatience. “All I meant was—”

“Do you want to make love to me or not?”

One of these days Bruce was going to get Clark to say words that were at least slightly sexier than _make love_ when referring to the amazing levels of sex they had. It was love-making, yes, Bruce loved Clark and knew Clark loved him, but damn he wanted to not feel like he was dating a woman in the fifties.

“Clark. The entire time I was doing the research I needed to help lead the police onto tonight’s drug ring, I was thinking of lying on my back with you on top of me, enjoying yourself on my cock. I think of it quite often, even when you aren’t sitting at the other desk mere feet away from me. I love knowing that you _need_ me.”

The hooded look of desire that descended over Clark’s amazingly clear eyes was one that Bruce relished, and he loved knowing that he was one of the few creatures on this Earth—if not the only one—to ever be on its receiving end. Without a word Clark stood from his kneeling position on the floor next to Bruce’s bed, gave him the Clark Kent version of a sexy smirk, and pushed Bruce backwards.

Trying not to grin, Bruce got comfortable on his back then sheathed and lubed himself, Clark watching almost hungrily. “Come here, Clark.” Obeying, Clark straddled him and accepted a minimal amount of prep before guiding Bruce’s hand away and positioning himself _just right_ to slide down onto his cock all the way.

Groans from each of them filled Bruce’s ears, his due to his ridiculously desirable lover squeezing around him, and Clark’s due to the amazing feel of Bruce’s cock inside him. Or so he guessed; no one ever claimed Bruce Wayne was modest in bed.

And, true to Clark’s murmured and detailed outline of his plans earlier that night before Bruce reluctantly had to push him away for a few hours, he rode Bruce _hard_. Usually their lovemaking was equal, give and take and sharing, representative of their partnership, but every once in a while one of them just _needed_ and the other just _submitted_.

Tonight was Clark’s turn to take what he needed, and Bruce’s job was to keep his own head from crashing into the headboard. It was certainly more easily said than done when one’s aggressive partner could leap buildings in a single bound and outrun bullets without even thinking about it.

He’d only gotten a concussion the first time, and it was a small one.

It was also his responsibility to not come first, which was extremely difficult when the only thing in his view was his lover “enjoying the hell out of himself,” as Dick would say, using his body, and surrounding him were the accompanying sounds and scents. He’d gotten better at it, and didn’t even need to use the ring anymore, though sometimes they used it for fun.

Years of training his body, meditation, biorhythmic feedback practice, and in general learning to control every inch of himself at any given time, and all of it could be undone by one blissed-out Kryptonian who normally appeared to be colorblind. Strip him out of the clashing costume and awful cheap suits, though—and strip away years of his own denial and then convincing himself it would never and could never work—and Bruce lost control.

It would be embarrassing if the cause of it weren’t _Superman_. Or to Bruce, _Clark_.

Arms braced above his head, palms flat against the headboard, Bruce watched as Clark effortlessly shifted his weight so he could fist his own cock. He wriggled _just so_ until he was balanced perfectly to still ride but also bring himself off with his hand. His eyes were squeezed shut and even he was breathing hard as he concentrated, the sweat where their skin touched providing some slickness to work with.

Bruce’s own arousal started to peak as the guttural moan that meant Clark would be coming in seconds became audible. The beautiful grimace of completion accompanied the moan as Clark came, and Bruce had to shut his eyes to avoid getting any of Clark’s semen in them. He knew they’d have to wipe off the headboard as well as his body.

As Clark’s body slowed its twitching, then stopped entirely, Bruce was able to relax his arms and brace his hands gently against Clark’s thighs. He rocked up into him slowly, until Clark was recovered enough to let himself levitate to the point of no longer being in direct contact with Bruce except for where Bruce was inside him. Finally able to get enough leverage, Bruce was able to finish himself, hands now clutching at Clark.

As he caught his breath, Clark climbed off and then cleaned them both up in the time it took Bruce to blink. Both of them sated, Clark set about kissing and licking all of the scars and bruises visible on Bruce’s body while he was on his back. He’d only questioned Clark the first time, and when he was unable to answer why he needed to do it, Bruce had dropped it.

He enjoyed the attention, anyway. Not having to hide was worth even more awkward sessions than simple licking, sticky as it made him.

Feeling sleep tugging at him, Bruce stretched languidly and turned his head to the side away from the lamp on his night table. A baritone chuckle next to his ear made him smile. “I’ll get your other side in the morning.”

“Please do.”

Mornings where Bruce was woken by Clark exploring with his hands—and even better, his tongue—meant that Bruce was woken very thoroughly before wanting to drift into sleep again. They were also mornings where he was late for work. If Bruce Wayne could ever truly be late to his own company, short of there being a meeting scheduled.

Many a meeting had been rescheduled on mornings when Clark woke next to him.

“Go to sleep, Bruce.”

“Trying.”

“Love you.”

“You too.” And he did, heart and body and soul. And if his thoughts as he drifted off to sleep revolved around having ‘his’ turn next, well. He knew not only would Clark not mind, he’d have himself lubed up and in position before Bruce could blink.

They worked well together, in the field and off.


End file.
